


Closed Windows, Open Doors

by cleromancy



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 05:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleromancy/pseuds/cleromancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The real reason Bats avoid using front doors, Tim thinks, is because crawling through someone’s window gives you a lot less time to reflect upon your life choices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closed Windows, Open Doors

**Author's Note:**

> Previously titled "Watch the Ripples Change Their Size (But Never Leave the Stream)"

The real reason Bats avoid using front doors, Tim thinks, is because crawling through someone’s window gives you much less time to reflect upon your life choices.

Then again, maybe Tim's just out of practice. Maybe normal people feel this awkward when waiting for someone to answer their door. He genuinely can’t remember. 

Maybe he should consider adding ‘normative interaction with other humans’ to his training schedule. 

While Tim's thinking a little too seriously about what that might actually entail, Jason finally opens the door, a submachine gun in his hand and a bemused expression on his face. Tim gives him a sarcastic little wave, and Jason’s bewilderment melts into a lazy smirk. 

“Well, well, well,” Jason says, leaning against the doorframe. “Isn’t _this_ a surprise.” 

“Me dropping by uninvited?” Tim says, quirking an eyebrow. “I would have _called_ first, you see, but—” 

“No, not _that,_ ” Jason says, waving his gun dismissively. “I’m used to you trying to wear out my hospitality. It’s just that I’m pretty sure that this is the first time anyone’s used my front door.” He pauses. “Including me.” 

It wasn't exactly planned. Tim was going to use the window, like always, but his grapple’s jammed up, and he's got a nasty limp after flubbing a landing earlier that night. He’d gotten to Jason’s safehouse and spent a long moment of staring balefully up at the fire escape with mounting dread. At some point Tim realized he’d never gather up the willpower to drag himself up to Jason’s apartment, not when there was a perfectly good elevator inside. 

Besides, Jason had bought out the whole apartment building. It’s not like there’d be a doorman to give masked crusader Red Robin a funny look. 

“I can’t remember the last time I knocked on someone’s front door,” Tim admits. “I’m surprised I remembered how.” 

Jason’s smirk widens into a real, honest smile. “I’m honored.” 

“You should be,” Tim says, faux-lofty, and Jason laughs. 

The corners of Tim’s mouth twitch up without his permission. It reopens the split lip Tim had forgotten he had, and Jason’s expression softens a little. 

It’s easy to forget how perceptive Jason can be. 

Jason reaches his free hand out, deliberate and slow, to rest on Tim’s cheek. Watching warily, Tim lets him, holding himself stock-still, but all Jason does is gently brush a drop of blood off of Tim’s lower lip with his thumb.

It hits Tim how surreal this is. Stormy incredulity is brewing in his chest, because—has he really been willingly visiting _Jason Todd_ , the man who tried to kill him twice, to the point where it's second nature? And then, there’s the same disbelief, that same cognitive dissonance, because Jason's greeted him, welcomed him—even patched him up, for God’s sake—not just once, but all these times, so often that it’s become almost routine? 

How on _Earth_ is it that the most unusual part of this visit is the part where Tim used the front door? 

As if remembering himself, Jason draws his hand back. He says, “Well, golly, I’m being a bad host, aren’t I?” and steps back, out of the doorway. Jason gestures inside with an extravagent flourish, saying, “After you,” and, just like that, the feeling of surreality is gone. 

Pulling off his cowl, Tim walks in past Jason, trying to minimize his limp as he goes. Jason will probably notice it anyway, but Tim doesn't see the point in flaunting his weaknesses. 

“Take a seat, kid,” Jason says, closing the door. “My shitty safehouse is your shitty safehouse.” 

For the second time that night, Tim forgets about the split lip and smiles. Same as before, Jason’s eyes catch on the cut, on Tim’s lips. Then his eyes flicker up to meet Tim’s, and there’s a weird moment where they’re just looking at each other, and then, abruptly, Jason turns away. 

“I’ll get the band-aids and Neosporin,” Jason says gruffly, and then he’s gone. 

Tim sits down gingerly on Jason’s ratty couch. He’s suspected for a while that it was liberated from the nearby dump—it’d explain the smell—but he’s never asked. If he’s going to _sit_ on this couch, he's going to cling to his plausible deniability. 

“Hey Tim, you want Big Bird or Mickey Mouse?” Jason calls from the bathroom, and Tim rolls his eyes, fond.

But as Jason rustles around through the bathroom closet, out of sight, Tim starts to feel that strangeness again. Restless, slightly uncomfortable, he stares into space, unconsciously twisting his hands together in his lap. Jason’s joke from earlier, the one about Tim taking advantage of Jason’s hospitality, resurfaces to ring in Tim’s ears. For the first time in a long while, Tim wonders why Jason allows this. Why he keeps opening his door—window—whatever—to let Tim in, to _patch him up,_ when he has every reason to laugh in Tim’s face instead.

And then Jason’s back, cutting off Tim’s train of thought by dumping a first aid kit and an icepack into his lap. 

Tim jumps, startled. He’d lost track of time, lost track of where he was, got caught up in his thoughts. Embarrassed, Tim leans down to take off his boots, which he should have done several minutes ago. _What the hell is wrong with me_ , he thinks, and tries to ignore the throbbing of his bruised fingers as he struggles with the knots of his bootlaces. 

Unaware of the thoughts pinballing around in Tim’s head, Jason’s plopped himself down on the couch next to him and started pulling out the Ace bandages and iodine. 

With his ankle freed, Tim reaches for the bandages. Jason bats his hand away. 

“Let me,” Jason says. 

“I can do it,” Tim protests, but Jason’s already taking Tim’s ankle into his lap. Tim bites his lip, forces himself not to protest further and just accept the help. Because yeah, he _could_ do it himself, but his fingers are so sore that they’re throbbing inside his gloves, and even unlacing his boots just now was kind of a struggle. 

Not that Tim particularly feels the need to admit that to Jason. 

Instead, he watches Jason’s face as he peels up the leg of Tim’s tights, surprisingly gentle. He wraps Tim’s ankle quickly and efficiently, careful not to jar it more than absolutely necessary, before reaching over and grabbing the icepack, pressing to hold it against on Tim’s leg. 

Now Tim protests in earnest. “I don’t need—”

“It’s for the swelling, Timbo, you won’t be able to get your boot back on. Don’t be an ass.” 

Tim frowns at him, but allows Jason to hold the icepack in place. With his ankle resting in Jason’s lap, Tim’s almost uncomfortably aware of how vulnerable he is. And again, he remembers how impossible this scene would have seemed even three months ago. 

Jason’s thumb brushes the edge of the bandages, accidental and feather-light, and when Tim shifts slightly Jason glances up, catches Tim’s eye for a second, and then looks down. Clears his throat.

“Any big cuts?” Jason asks. “Should clean them.” 

Tim watches him. Jason’s got his free hand rummaging pointlessly around in the first aid kit, like he’s restless enough to need to keep his hands busy. Avoiding Tim’s eyes, like he’s nervous.

Tim never knows what to make of Jason. 

Instead of answering, Tim says, as lightly as he can, “I don’t want to wear out my welcome.” 

Jason just snorts. “If that was ever gonna happen, it would’ve happened already. Cuts, Tim?” 

Tim licks his lips. “No,” he says. 

“Bruises? I’ve got that fancy cream shit.” 

There are bruises, or what will be bruises tomorrow—big, mottled, vicious ones on his back and chest. Tim had gotten careless, dropped his guard. Not unusual, although it’s happening less often these days. 

Instead of telling Jason about the bruises, Tim says, “I’m surprised that you’re playing nurse with such dedication.” 

Jason shrugs. “It’s nothing I haven’t done before.” 

Jason’s thumb is back on his calf, Tim realizes, stroking slow little circles. Soothing. He wonders if Jason realizes that he’s doing it. 

He watches Jason’s other hand in the first aid kit, stilled from its rustless rummaging, and thinks about Jason’s thumb on his lip, thinks about Jason’s honest laughter at Tim’s dorky jokes. About the way he always lets Tim in, always welcomes him, about the way he never quite pulls off sarcasm when he says, “Make yourself at home.” 

Tim nods slowly. He sits up a little bit, gently extricates his foot from Jason’s hand, lets it slide down off of Jason’s lap. Jason lets him, drops the icepack, watching him with an unreadable expression. No, not unreadable; Tim knows that look. 

He’s waiting for Tim’s next move.

Licking his lips, Tim crawls up onto his knees, bracing himself with a hand on the back of the couch. He leans forward, rests his other hand on Jason’s shoulder, and moves further into Jason’s space to press a light kiss to his mouth. 

It lasts half a second, and then Tim pulls away, awash in a sudden, all-consuming wave of panic. Worries flood his mind: what if he read the signs wrong? what if Jason was just tolerating him after all? what if these past months were just some fucked up game Jason was playing? and above all, _oh, God, what have I done_? 

But Tim can’t pull back very far, because Jason’s hand has moved to his waist, keeping him in place. Tim looks up into Jason’s face and sees that his eyes are wide, but his mouth is stretching into a grin. 

Reaching out with his other hand, Jason cups Tim’s cheek and gently pulls him back in. Tim, taken off guard yet again, loses his balance and tumbles into Jason’s lap.

When Jason kisses Tim for the first time, he’s laughing. 

This kiss lasts a long time. It’s funny; if Tim had given the matter more thought, he would have expected Jason’s kisses to be intense, demanding. He supposes it’s fitting how confusingly sweet they are instead. Jason Todd will never stop surprising him. 

When they finally part, both breathing heavily, Tim lets his forehead rest against Jason’s. They’re so close that their breath mingles, that Jason’s features swim before Tim’s eyes. 

“You said I wouldn’t wear out my welcome,” Tim says, stilted. 

“No,” Jason says. His hand is warm on the back of Tim’s neck. “Never.”


End file.
